


Reflections Without Mirrors

by ice_hot_13



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:51:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice_hot_13/pseuds/ice_hot_13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desmond always worried he wouldn't be able to untangle his own feelings from Ezio's, but this time, he can't blame anything but himself. (AU-ish qualities) (request!fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Leonardo had always been fascinated by the idea of a keystone. A single stone that held up an entire structure, something so crucial that everything would crumble without it, become nothing at all. It had always been that sort of theory that fascinated him, the ones with the barest whisper of poetry to them. The idea that a single stone was the centre of the doorway's limited world, that one thing could ever be important enough to be not only instrumental in an existence, but  _be_ the existence itself – the idea is almost too beautiful for engineering, pure enough for art. He was fascinated, until this became the melody to which his world fell apart. Perhaps it was perfectly fitting, that he could assign his own devastation an explanation through engineering.

There was no sunlight in the morning. The sky outside was a dreary grey, rain in the streets if not yet bleeding from the sky. Leonardo was sitting at the table in his workshop, reading a letter, when the door burst open. He didn't look up, the sound of staggering footsteps across the floor and harsh, uneven breathing as familiar as his own heartbeat.

"Buon giorno, Ezio. I trust your mission was successful?" Leonardo looked up with a smile that quickly faltered, "I was not aware that you had a mission."

"No. No mission." Ezio fell into a chair across from Leonardo, looked at him for a moment, then stood up again. "What're you reading?"

"A letter from my brother."

"Ah." Ezio stared impassively at the floor, then his brow furrowed. "You have a brother?" Leonardo kept his attention to the page, refused to let disappointment register on his face. It should have ceased to be surprising, the amount that Ezio didn't know about him. Certainly the sudden revelations were frequent enough to ease him into the idea.

"Sì, Ezio. He lives with our father, in France."

"Ah." Another pause. "How's the letter?"

"Wonderful." Leonardo studied Ezio, as the assassin paced before the window. "He says " _'_ Coepi amico opus patris nostri quod est engineer. Spero juvare se incepto ponte'" Leonardo said, watching him.

"That's good news," Ezio said. Leonardo sighed.

"Ezio, you do not speak Latin."

"I don't understand why that matters, Leonardo." He cast a look over his shoulder, as sharp as his tone was clipped.

"I just read to you from his letter," Leonardo said patiently, "it was in Latin, because he overuses every opportunity to practice his Latin. Perhaps you were not listening to me?" Ezio gave him an apologetic look. "I'm merely worried about you, amico mio. Are you feeling all right?" Ezio came to a stop across from him, leaned on the tabletop. His stare was unwavering, even if the look on his face was something far too akin to misery for Leonardo's comfort.

"Rosa is with child." Ezio hung his head, shoulders slumping. Leonardo could only stare. If Ezio was jealous of the man Rosa had been with – surely Leonardo's world would shudder, stumble, sink to its knees.

"Who-"

" _Leonardo,"_ Ezio breathed, fragile as anything the world ever put together from crystal as thin as silken threads, broken by a whisper, "it's mine."

The entire world crumbled to pieces when Ezio slammed his fist down on the table, breaking every hope Leonardo ever had that Ezio might love him back.


	2. Chapter 2

Leonardo never truly thought he'd have his heart broken. Granted, he'd always known he wouldn't ever have what he wanted, but somehow, he thought he'd be in this state forever- suspended, floating, removed from all the choices and truths and decisiveness that were sure to destroy him. He thought Ezio would keep breaking him slowly, that somehow, against all laws of time and space, nothing would change.

Now, everything had been disproved. Something irreversible had happened, Ezio was permanently lost to him, every chance or hope shattered beyond recognition, and it was now, through the unfortunate phenomenon that was first-hand experience, Leonardo knew that having his heart merely broken would have been a welcome mercy. It wasn't so much broken as torn away, left  _him_ broken and empty, nothing but an empty pain filling him.

The day he left Italy was a final disaster in his symphony of defeat. He should have been able to tell from the moment Ezio walked into the workshop- the end would not be simple, painless. It would be just like everything else that had never happened between them – a pointless deterioration.

"You're leaving?" Ezio stared around the empty workshop as if the sight refused to make sense to him, like he was looking at something impossible, unnatural, as if this were water flowing uphill. "Leonardo–"

"Sì, Ezio, I am leaving." Leonardo waited as Ezio half-staggered out the door, shutting it behind him. He hoisted the last box into his arms, starting down the street towards where his brother Zanebono was waiting for him. He'd come from France to accompany Leonardo on the return trip to Paris, ever aptly named as  _the good one._ He was Leonardo's opposite, as a brilliant engineer with a particularly stunning talent for art, and at the same time, he was the same, exactly the same.

"Where to?" Imploring eyes were fixed on him, the most anxious Leonardo had ever seen Ezio.

"I'm going to join my brother and father in France. There are truly remarkable feats of engineering taking place there, I would love to be a part of it." He wouldn't look at Ezio, couldn't.

"Leonardo…" Ezio trailed off helplessly, mournful in a way Leonardo couldn't bear. He knew it was cruel, leaving Ezio, who had already been left so many times by so many people he cared about – but Ezio took himself away from Leonardo when he sealed them off from all the hope that had been filtering in towards them. Leonardo couldn't live with the success Ezio was having at making himself love Rosa.

"I'm sorry, amico mio. It's just something I must do." He set the box down on a low wall, turning to face Ezio. Ezio merely looked at him, and it was haunting, the sorrow on his face, like he was losing Leonardo just as he'd lost Federico.

"I suppose I will never understand," Ezio mumbled, gaze darting away. "Could you not- as a last favour to me, could you explain – why? Is it so complex, that I would not understand?"

"Ezio," Leonardo sighed, knew he should tear himself away, further, faster, but caught in this last, last moment with Ezio. "It's simple, so simple." Deceptive, how it was always the simple things that destroyed everything. Bridges fell because of gravity, love failed because the thousandth day didn't feel like the first, people died because they could not stop it. Everything was simple.

Leonardo leaned in and kissed Ezio.

There were no words for it, none at all. It was nothing Leonardo had hoped for – it was a goodbye, it was an apology, it was nothing that would save him.

"You see?" Leonardo whispered.

"Leonardo –" Ezio struggled to say even his name, looking more conflicted than Leonardo could stand, "Leonardo, if I could- I swear, if I could- but I _can't,_ don't you see? It's –

Elmo – I can't leave him." Leonardo could say nothing; to begrudge a tiny baby boy for all that was wrong would be senseless, when all the fault was his own. He still found it bitterly ironic, that this little boy whose name meant  _worthy to be loved_ would be the one who made Ezio stay, would mean the end of any hope Leonardo ever had of Ezio loving him back. "My father left me," Ezio said desperately, as if begging Leonardo to understand, "I won't- won't do that voluntarily to my own son- I can't leave him, not even- not even to go with you."

"I know," Leonardo said quietly, "I would never ask you to." He turned to go, but he didn't get more than a few steps away before Ezio spoke again.

"If I could," Ezio said quietly, "I'd go anywhere with you."

It was the final note of their painful, crushing symphony; desolate and empty, standing alone, hovering in the air long after the song has sunk into a deep, irrevocable silence.


	3. Chapter 3

"I need  _therapy."_

The statement earned Desmond only a mildly irritated look from Shaun, complete with raised eyebrows and a scoff.

"I was already aware." Shaun said dryly, looking back to his laptop.

"No, I'm serious! That shit was  _traumatising."_ Desmond waved his arms, trying to somehow communicate the gravity of the situation to Shaun, who seemed stubbornly oblivious. "You know how chick flicks are always sappy at the end, where they confess their secret love for each other and then cancel travel plans and live happily ever after?" Shaun just stared; Desmond took it as confirmation.

"You watch romantic comedies often enough to know their general storyline?" Shaun said, and Desmond chose to ignore him.

"Well, this time they didn't do what they were supposed to! Leonardo admitted he was in love with Ezio, and Ezio just said he loved Leonardo too- and then they just left! Seriously, man. That screwed Ezio up, do you have any idea what it's like to live through someone living through that?"

"No, Desmond. I daresay you're one of the only people on Earth who has lived through someone living through something."

"Well- you know what I mean!" Desmond flopped back on the Animus 2.0, glaring sideways at the historian. "Traumatizing."

"I'm sure you'll recover by lunchtime."

"Not a chance, man."

"Dinner at the latest."

"You think I have no soul, don't you?"

"No, Desmond, I think you have no sense. Things like toasters and armchairs have no souls, as they're inanimate. Not coincidentally, they're not annoying or irritating in the least. You, however, are nothing  _but_ annoying and irritating; ergo, you must have a soul, or whatever you want to call it."

Desmond blinked, then shook his head. "You couldn't have just said, like, 'you're a brat' or something? You had to go and make it all- confusing, and stuff?" He paused. "I mean, you compared me to a  _toaster!"_

"No," Shaun said, with that maddening patience he used with Desmond, as if explaining something to a hyperactive child, or perhaps a goldfish, "I said you are quite  _unlike_ a toaster. Very different indeed."

"Oh, my God," Desmond muttered, standing and stretching. "Whatever. You used a toaster as a reference point when talking about me. I'm offended."

"I leave it to your interpretation."

"You're just- augh! You know what? You're like my version of Leonardo, seriously."

"Because I'm brilliant?" Shaun smirked.

"Sure, whatever, but you're also the negative one-point-oh model," Desmond added, making Shaun scowl, "you're useless at art, and way meaner than Leonardo was." The idea that sweet, helpful Leonardo would ever mock Ezio was laughable. "I'm positive  _he_ never compared  _Ezio_ to a toaster!" Desmond turned to stalk out of the room.

"Probably because toasters didn't exist in the 1400's."

"Shut up! And for the record, I watch chick flicks because the ladies  _totally dig_ the sensitive type!" This made Shaun laugh hysterically, and Desmond growled and shut the door forcefully behind him. "You're not supposed to mock me!" he yelled.

All in all, though, it was endlessly better, that they weren't like Ezio and Leonardo. It would be far too tragic. Their story was uncommon, and perhaps that was the last vestige of proof that the world cared.

Desmond wasn't going to think about it. Remembering how it felt to  _be_ Ezio, watching Leonardo walk away, the artist's taste still on his lips, made something in his chest tear itself apart.


	4. Chapter 4

Desmond had always been exceptionally good at hiding from his own emotions. Conflicting feelings were easy to smother in exhaustion, drown in pounding music, mute in alcohol. It was easy, but it didn't last long. Not four minutes after he'd staggered into the living room and collapsed on the couch after an overkill two-mile run, his thoughts were up and running, full-force.

"Must you nearly kill yourself every time?" Shaun called over, "you could just go  _jogging_ without running a marathon every time. Moderation is better than binges."

"What are you, a personal trainer now?" Desmond glared over the back of the couch.

"Merely ensuring you don't perish of exhaustion."

"Don't give me that 'looking out for you' BS, I know that, somehow, this is evil."

"Whatever you say, Desmond." The clacking of his laptop keys resumed. Desmond fell back onto the couch, closing his eyes. His muscles still burned with exertion, groaning in protest whenever he moved. Despite his valiant efforts to use exhaustion to beat away his thoughts, they'd returned.

It felt like he was being haunted by Ezio's feelings.

Ever since his last session in the Animus, the fleeting thoughts had turned into full-on barrages, nonstop in their assault. He  _wanted Leonardo back,_ with the same twisting intensity that had struck Ezio when he'd watched the ship sail into the place where sea-grey and sky-grey met, farther than he could ever go. Desmond just wanted to be  _rid_ of that aching emptiness, the feeling that plagued Ezio even years later, Leonardo as near and as far as a memory. It felt like he'd found what some instinctual part of him knew he was missing, but it had to be wrong, because Leonardo belonged to Ezio, bound in their time.

And yet, Desmond was feeling it too, in the way that a star mirrored another on the other side of the night sky, galaxies apart.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

"Oh, my God." Shaun's shocked voice made Desmond turn and glare over his shoulder. "Desmond!" Shaun gasped, "you can  _read!_ Oh, happy day! There's _hope!"_

"I swear I'll kill you in your sleep," Desmond growled, turning back to the stack of books before him.

"Not before I kill you, because  _are those my books?"_

"You weren't usin' em."

"Because they're  _antiques!"_ Shaun threw his hands into the air and left for the kitchen, grumbling what sounded like logically unsound methods for murder. In any case, if he managed to kill Desmond seven and a half times, even Desmond himself would be impressed.

Once Shaun had ceased making a racket in the kitchen, Desmond focussed back on the texts before him. He'd decided that, if he couldn't silence the rampaging feeling of  _missing_ Leonardo, he would placate it. Desmond had since delved into history books, in a desperate hunt for Leonardo's lineage. Maybe that could explain it, appease it,  _something,_ because there was nothing he could do to escape the way it felt to miss someone that had never been his, had never met him as himself. Desmond had once thought there could be nothing worse than falling in love with someone he couldn't have, but this was worse. Worse was meeting someone  _perfect_ for him who would never meet him, who would die decades before he would live. Worse traversed the impossible and the tragic, sweeping out to some distant point where they met in a terrible, heartbreakingly beautiful breath of perfection.

"Okay." Shaun was back, and he sounded considerably calmer. Tea always tended to placate him somewhat. "What are you doing?"

"Uh – researching Leonardo's descendants."

"Because…?"

"Because – you're the historian, you know why people research stuff. I mean, that's why we have like, history, and things like electricity and tomatoes." The response made Shaun heave a sigh.

"Honestly, I don't know why I even try to understand you. Electricity and  _tomatoes_ are the product of this sort of disorganized research?"

"Well, sure. Otherwise, how would we know how people used to farm them?"

"They never went out of style, Desmond, people have always had a current knowledge of such farming."

"Whatever. Just be thankful we have tomatoes."

"I – would you just answer the question?"

"Tomato farming?"

"No. Why you're studying Leonardo's lineage." Shaun waved a hand at the pile of books. "You were never interested in anything remotely historical or useful before. It's rather unlike you."

"I just – was wondering. Stuff. Wanted to know- things, about. This."

"Oh, stuff and things. Well, if that's what you're after," Shaun rolled his eyes. "Highly informative, Desmond." He'd always been smarter than Desmond would admit to giving him credit for, though, because this answer seemed to satisfy him, as he started out of the room.

"You're not gonna interrogate me any more?" Desmond called out after him.

"On the contrary, I'm going to help you, ludicrous as that may seem." Shaun closed the door behind him, leaving Desmond to stare and wonder how Shaun had gleaned an answer out of what Desmond himself could barely understand.

It was when he was feeling bewildered at the workings of someone far more brilliant than he ever could be that Desmond felt the most like Ezio.


	5. Chapter 5

Desmond had always been a partier. He would stay out with friends until four in the morning on nights he didn't have work, and had always been sort of proud of his ability to stay awake and energetic and just keep going, bar to bar, never losing even an ounce of energy.

He was deeply annoyed that he was employing his skills to stay up until five AM doing what could only be called  _studying._ Reading textbooks, going over diagrams, all this, was  _not_ what he did.

And yet, he was awake at a despicable hour with a  _textbook_ before him, laptop at his side showing an encyclopaedia site. It was almost an insult to his wild partying ways, which were now, apparently, a thing of the past.

"I'm still utterly incapable of adjusting to this 'Desmond doing work' thing," Shaun's voice made Desmond jump.

"Hot  _damn,_ Shaun," he grumbled, "give me a heart attack, why don't you."

"You don't even curse like a normal person, do you? Unsurprising." Shaun arched an eyebrow, looking down at him. "Although it is quite fitting that you seem incapable of adopting normal study habits."

"What's un-normal about this?"

"It's six AM and you're sitting under a table."

"So? I… do my best thinking under tables!" Desmond declared, then frowned. "Can I have a second shot at that?"

"No."

"But that sounded  _so_ lame."

"Something you will just have to come to terms with." Shaun shook his head. "Anyways, here." He handed over a sheet of paper.

"Eviction notice?"

"Hilarious. It's a list of names, not reasons why you're a terrible roommate. Expect that list shortly."

"Hah hah," Desmond rolled his eyes, then studied the list. "Who are all these people?"

"Leonardo's descendants," Shaun said simply, "I have no clue what you'd want with them, but there they are. All of them."

"I… uh…" Desmond could only stare wide-eyed at the list. Suddenly being handed the prize, being given the goal, was like a shuddering halt to a full-tilt sprint, something that would take a few crashing steps to adjust to. "Thanks," he managed, but Shaun had already walked away.

In Desmond's mind, he was Ezio, watching the empty space after Leonardo had already walked away.

0o0o0o0o0o

"Do you speak English?" Desmond could hear the whine of desperation in his tone. He'd had better luck hiding it for the first three people he'd spoken with over the phone, but now, on number five, was having a harder time.

_"Pardon?"_

"English? Please?" He was practically pleading into the phone.

" _Un moment, s'il vous plait-_ " A click as he was put on hold. Again.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Desmond muttered under his breath, glaring down at the kitchen table. There was a click.

"Hello?" It was heavily accented, but, thank the merciful heavens, it was English.

"Hello!" Desmond practically yelled at the poor receptionist, "I'm looking for Jacques Girard."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Uh- no, I just want to talk to him."

"You need an appointment for this. He is very busy."

"Yes, I understand, but- honest, it's just for a few minutes-"

"Oui, even so, you need an appointment."

"Okay, can I schedule an appointment?"

"Certainly. The woman you were just speaking with arranges appointments-"

"No, I can't talk to her," Desmond protested, "she doesn't speak English. Can't I arrange it with you?"

There was a pause. And then a very irritated sigh.

"I suppose," the woman huffed. "The earliest appointment is on the twelfth."

"That's great! What time tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" she laughed a little under her breath, " _Monsieur,_ who do you think Monsieur Girard is? The twelfth of next month."

"I- uh- okay, that's really the earliest?"

"Oui. As I have mentioned."

"Okay. Then- yeah, I'll call back on the twelfth then, if you really can't-"

"Monsieur Girard does not accept phone appointments."

"Um. Excuse me?"

"You may have an appointment at three on the twelfth, in-office."

"But- I can't, you see, I'm not in France."

"I see." A pause. "Good day,  _Monsieur."_

She'd hung up on him. Desmond slammed the phone on the table, assaulting it with a long litany of curses. There was the sound of slow applause; Desmond looked up to see Shaun leaning in the doorway, clapping with an overly-amused look on his face.

"Something funny?" Desmond scowled.

"I can't decide whether it's your anger management issues or extreme inability to get anything accomplished that's funnier." He smirked, and Desmond just growled in response. "It was just extremely unproductive."

"I'd like to see you do better!"

Shaun just shook his head and went to make himself tea.


	6. Chapter 6

It was five AM.

It was  _five o'clock_ in the  _morning._

It was, in Desmond's opinion,  _way too early to be alive._ Desmond snarled at the alarm clock that placidly informed him that it was 5 AM – now 5:03 – and shoved his head under the pillow. He didn't want to be awake, and, come to think of it, didn't know why he even  _was._ His room is silent. So is the hallway outside of it. Desmond has halfway convinced himself it was all in his head when he hears something.

"J'ai aucune idée, mais – et comment? Que tu es ridicule… mais  _si,_ mais, vraiment," he heard from the direction of the kitchen. Desmond didn't understand a word of this, but he did know that he wanted to  _murder_ Shaun for saying them at  _five in the goddamn morning._ It took another few minutes of foreign words before Desmond dragged himself out of bed to see what Shaun thought he was doing.

Shaun was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a glass of tea, and talking on the phone. He didn't have his glasses on, and for some reason, it made Desmond feel  _weird,_ like he was creeping into Shaun's bedroom.

"Ouais," Shaun was saying, and Desmond was pretty sure it was French. "Non, je te l'ai dit. J'ai  _aucune_ idée." Although Desmond had come to the kitchen to get Shaun to shut up, the motivation had left him. He started the coffeemaker, trying to be quiet so he could hear because, admittedly, French wasn't exactly unpleasant to hear. "D'accord. Tenes moi au courant, d'accord? Salut." Shaun hung up, set his phone on the table. "We need an espresso maker," he informed Desmond, as if speaking French at 5 AM was totally normal, and didn't need addressing.

"Well sure, if you're gonna make this early wake up thing a habit," Desmond said, making Shaun glare. Without his glasses, it was really obvious that his eyes were a sort of dark honey colour. Desmond turned away, examined the coffeemaker. "Besides, an espresso maker is the  _least_ creative way to make it."

"I was under the impression that it's the only way," Shaun said, and Desmond shook his head.

"I can do it with a coffeemaker like this one. Just brew a fourth of a cup of fine ground coffee and a half cup of cold water, 's real easy."

"Huh."

Desmond fixed his coffee, and turned back to Shaun. "So what was up with the 5 AM French?"

"Oh, nothing at all," Shaun practically smirked. "Nothing to worry your pretty head over."

"Ha, ha."

0o0o0o0o0o

Going into the Animus 2.0 had become an almost depressing experience. Desmond was lying on the couch of the den, staring up at the ceiling while Ezio's memories played over and over in his head.

Ezio's son Elmo was growing up, over two years old, and Ezio was relentless in his efforts to see the little boy as often as humanly possible, usually more. Rosa left Elmo with her sister more often than not; when he wasn't with her, he was with a neighbour or friend, and Ezio spent more time than reasonable figuring out where Elmo was.

_"Did Rosa leave Elmo here?" Ezio asked Carmilla, the second person he's asked. His question is answered by a thrilled shriek._

_"Papà!" Elmo came running unsteadily towards him. Ezio scooped him up, as Elmo laughed with delight._

_"Ciao, amore," Ezio squeezed his son in his arms, kissing his dark curls. "Has he been here long?" he asked Carmilla, who gave him a small, apologetic smile._

_"Since yesterday," she said, "but you know he's always welcome here. Marco and Bella love playing with him."_

_"Grazie," Ezio said quietly. "I have to go away again, tonight, but I can ask someone-"_

_"Ezio, you don't have to worry. He's family, and so are you! He can stay here as long as you need." Carmilla sighs. "I know my sister," she said, because that explained everything._

_"She just wasn't ready," Ezio said, a tired, repeated mantra._

_"She'll never be ready," Carmilla said gently, "Elmo is always, always welcome here, for as long as you need. I promise."_

_"Papà, no leave, no leave," Elmo started to plead, and after Ezio kissed him goodbye and transferred him to Carmilla's arms, it was hard to force himself to leave._

_He could still hear Elmo's sobs, and he knew the sound wouldn't go away for a long, long time._

Desmond heaved a sigh, tried again to push Ezio's memories out of his mind. Ezio was always thinking about his son, worrying and wishing he could go home, and when he was in a particularly dark mood, thoughts of Leonardo would arise, and those were all pain. Becoming Ezio was miserable, because the assassin had never been more upset in his life.

There was an exception, though. In those few minutes Ezio had with Elmo, Desmond got to feel absolute elation, a happiness so complete and all-encompassing that it didn't seem possible. That made the whole thing so much more bearable – which, Desmond realized, must have been how Ezio felt. After losing Leonardo, and suffering the effects of Rosa's absentee parenting, all the while struggling through the fight against the Templars, seeing Elmo was all Ezio had.

"Huh." Shaun's voice made Desmond sit up and look over the back of the couch. It wasn't often Shaun sounded so utterly confused. And if Desmond was being honest, he was eager for a distraction for his own – and Ezio's – thoughts.

"What's it?"

"Oh, nothing," Shaun muttered, but he still sounded absolutely bewildered.

"Sure, sure." Desmond jumped up and went to hang on Shaun's shoulder and study his computer screen, even as Shaun scowled and minimized the page he was on. "Please please please, man!"

"It's nothing," Shaun groaned. "Just – well, did you know that every time someone says 'someone I used to know,' they're talking about their  _ex?"_

"Uh." Desmond tried to hide a smirk, "yes." Shaun turned to glower at him.

"People can be so bloody cryptic…"

"It sounds cooler than 'my ex!' That way, you sound kind of… mysterious?" This made Shaun choke with laughter.

"Mysterious? You actually believe that?"

"Yeah! I mean, if I say 'oh, I used to know someone who did that,' I sound like I have a – like – evolving social life! But if I said 'my ex-boyfriend,' then I sound all pathetic. Perfect solution!"

"Whatever you say," Shaun snickered, and Desmond wasn't sure that there wasn't a hesitation there. "I gotta get going," he said, standing. "See you in a bit."

"Where're you going?" Desmond asked, almost asked  _can I come too?_ Anything was better than sitting in the silence and hearing that memory in his mind, Elmo wailing and Ezio feeling like his heart was being ripped out of his chest.

"I'll be back soon," Shaun said instead; he didn't have to hunt around for his keys like Desmond did, Shaun kept his in a bowl on his desk. Desmond's more commonly resided in pockets of jackets and jeans lying on the floor of his room.

It was a lot quieter after Shaun left. Lucy was working, and Rebecca was doing repairs, and Desmond was left alone in the den. The girls tended to keep to themselves while working, which was most of the time; Shaun worked best if he could continually announce his findings and talk about them, and everything even remotely related, much as he claimed to need peace and quiet to work. Left alone, he'd wander off on research tangents. To Desmond, it felt like he and Shaun were the only ones living there sometimes. That made it seem a lot more quiet and empty whenever Shaun left, and the silence bothered Desmond more than he'd admit.

Desmond lasted fifteen minutes in the den by himself before going to find Lucy. Rebecca was usually more fun to talk to, but when working, she was loath to be distracted. He found Lucy, quite predictably, in the study. The study was a small room tucked near the bedrooms, with a desk that was far too large for the space inside. Lucy sat before the centre of the desk, typing on a laptop, papers strewn everywhere.

"Hi, Desmond," she said without even turning around.

"I might be an assassin, but you're definitely a ninja. How'd you even know it was me?" he protested. Lucy laughed, and just pointed to the window. "No, I'm over here. So much for your ninja powers."

"No, no, I can see your reflection in the window."

"Oh. Guess you can have your ninja powers back then."

"Pretty sure I'm not a ninja."

"Are you sure you'd even know?" Desmond crossed the room to sit on the desk, scanning her computer screen. "Ezio's contacts, huh?"

"Yup." Lucy leaned back in her chair to look up at him, "making sure we're keeping track of everyone and where they ended up and all."

"Like stalking, but they're all dead," Desmond supplied cheerfully, making Lucy roll her eyes. "Man, it's a good thing I'm not Italian," he remarked, making Lucy snicker. "I mean – I don't mean like, heritage wise! Like, I didn't grow up in Italy, I meant!"

"Forget who your ancestors are?" Lucy giggled, and Desmond waved a hand.

"I  _meant_ that I don't live in Italy all the time, sheesh," he groaned, even as she just laughed more. "But, seriously. Because I could  _not_ say those names without cracking up! Like one of the thieves Ezio deals with is named  _Valentino,_ like, really! And then Ezio named his kid after  _Sesame Street._ Like, seriously."

"Pretty sure they didn't  _have_ Sesame Street back then."

"They might have had like… a puppet show equivalent?" he guessed.

"I was so surprised to find out he had a son," Lucy said, "and from the records, he was always gone, so I can't imagine he was that great of a dad, you know?"

"I dunno," Desmond managed, because for some reason, the statement  _hurt,_ like she was accusing him personally. He could never call Ezio a bad father, it was impossible; the heart-wrenching misery Ezio felt every time he had to leave Elmo behind was crippling. Desmond didn't know how Ezio even managed to live with that kind of pain. "Hey, I gotta finish up some stuff. Catch you later."

He ended up back in the den, all-too aware that this empty silence felt horribly familiar. It was the same silence Ezio heard, walking away from Elmo, the little boy's wails still ricocheting in his mind.

It was the silence of absence, wholly and utterly wrong, and while Desmond was grateful that this, here, was temporary, all he could feel was the despair Ezio felt when he heard it.

To Ezio, this was the silence of Leonardo's workshop.


End file.
